Osceola stood up and gave Bill a questioning glance which said plainer than words—“Further directions, please?”

Bill motioned toward the lower wing section on Osceola’s side of the plane, mouthed the word “jump,” and patted the pull ring on his own parachute harness.

Osceola scrambled out of the cockpit onto the wing. For a moment he clung to an interplane strut and beckoned Sam to follow. Sam hurried after him, although from the expression on the negro’s face, it was evident that he was terrified. Bill saw him crawl across the wing to the rear edge where Osceola stood. Then as the old man got to his feet, still clinging frantically to the strut, the Seminole, facing forward, gave a tug on his pull ring. The seat pack parachute bellied out behind him and he disappeared from sight.

At the same instant, Bill felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and the blue-black muzzle of an automatic was pushed into his face. Instinctively he leaned forward to dodge the gun. The wheel went with him, and bucking like a frightened cow pony, the big plane shot into a nose dive.

This maneuver sent Bill’s antagonist sprawling onto the wooden yoke to which both wheels were attached, forcing it forward as far as it would go. The gangster’s head smashed into the instrument board and he lay inert. Himself thrown forward by the amphibian’s dive, Bill caught at the seat to save his own head. The man’s unconscious body prevented any manipulation of elevators or ailerons. The plane was beyond his control, and racing earthward with wide open throttle at a hair-raising rate of speed. He must save himself if he could: within a second or so the big aircraft would be but a twisted mass of burning wood and metal flaming in the swamp below. Luckily, the pilot’s cockpit had no roof. Bill dragged himself on to the back of his seat, which, now due to the plane’s almost vertical position, had become a small, horizontal platform. With a hand on the pull ring of his parachute pack, he dived head first over the cockpit’s cowl into the open ether.

The approved types of parachutes are the manually operated free type. A “free” type parachute is one that is complete in one unit, strapped to the person of an aviator by a suitable harness, and one that has no attachments whatever to the aircraft. A “manually operated” parachute is one that will unpack automatically when the wearer gives a slight pull on the ring located in a readily accessible place on the harness. The aviator can open his parachute just when clear of the disabled airplane or he can make a long free drop away from burning wreckage or a pursuing enemy plane before he pulls the ring.

And this is why Bill did not pull the ring on his manually operated, free parachute before diving out of the amphibian. Should the body or air bag of the chute come in contact with the plane, he would naturally crash with it.

Bill was not a trained parachute jumper. That part of an aviator’s training is usually confined to those who specialize in lighter-than-air craft, and Bill was a heavier-than-air pilot. The sensation of diving into the air, several thousand feet above the earth was anything but a pleasant one. But his nerves were steady. He kept his head.

“One,” he said to himself, as he sprang outwards and down...

“Two—” He felt his body twisting in his fall. He knew he was catapulting earthward at a falling speed of nearly 400 miles per hour.

“Three!” He jerked on the pull ring. Would the chute open? Would it be capable of withstanding the shock incurred by the weight of his body falling at this terrific rate of speed? (He knew that the average time required for an air chute to open and assume normal descent is approximately one and three-fifths seconds after the rip cord has been pulled). But that mere second and a fraction seemed interminable. He was falling ... falling...

There came a sudden jerk that wrenched every muscle in his tense body. His projectile-like speed decreased with uncomfortable suddenness, and he was swung round and upward to find himself sitting in what amounted to a swing, with webbing representing the ropes on either side of his aching body. Looking up, he saw that slightly above his head and within reach, the webbing divided into two, and that the shrouds or small cords leading to the outer edge of the parachute were here attached to the harness he wore, in four places. He was swaying wildly. In an effort to prevent that, he pulled the ropes, first on one side, then on the other.

All this had happened in an inconceivably short space of time. Three, possibly four seconds had elapsed since Bill had sprung out of the doomed amphibian. For the moment, his mind had been intent upon his own particular troubles, but now that he swung safely in his harness, memory came back. He turned his eyes earthward.

Almost directly below him, a column of black smoke smudged the clear green of the swamp grass. At the very base of the dark cloud, red tongues of flame shot skyward. Bill turned his gaze elsewhere. His former passengers were undoubtedly as cold-blooded, black-hearted a band of villains as had ever lived; still, they were, or had been human beings. And Bill had no desire to watch their cremation and the demolition of a splendid plane.

His eyes swept the horizon. Yes, over there perhaps a mile to westward two parachutes, one far below the other, were floating down toward earth. Even as he looked, the farther one disappeared behind tall trees on an island.

“Confound it all! I clean forgot to tell those two innocents anything about landing. Hope they don’t get into trouble—it’s my fault if they do!”

He knew that the average rate of descent is sixteen feet per second, and unless one knows how, a broken leg or worse may be the outcome of an inexperienced landing. But their luck had held so far, apparently. Osceola and Sam were both sinewy, well-muscled fellows—they would probably come out all right. For all their sakes, he hoped so. A disabled companion in the middle of the Everglades, with no means of transport other than one’s two legs, would prove a problem that Bill did not care to contemplate.

Then he saw Sam disappear with his parachute in the high sawgrass. He was coming close to earth himself. In a very few minutes, he would land, and his gaze switched to the terrain directly below.

Osceola had landed on the firm ground of a large island. Sam had not been so lucky, for Bill knew that the Seminole name for the Everglades is Grassy-Water, and that sawgrass does not grow on dry land. He himself was floating over the island, but he soon saw that the wind-drift would carry him, too, into the grass unless he could prevent it.

Up went his hands, and getting a good grip on the parachute shrouds, he pulled down hard on the ropes to windward. The chute immediately bellied in and sideslipped into the wind. He dared not overdo the business, and presently righted the chute by the simple expedient of releasing the shrouds. In a fall of one hundred feet, Bill figured he had sideslipped ten. He had seen men spin their parachutes in order to swing aside from some building or other obstacle. He knew that the trick is done by pulling down on one side, then releasing the pressure with a sort of flipping motion. He attempted it, without success; after a few failures gave it up in favor of the easier sideslips.

He was almost down now, and delighted to see that due to his system of sideslipping, the parachute would land him on the island.

Down he came, swaying slightly, onto a patch of soft green turf, dotted with wildflowers. Knowing that the body should relax in landing, he made no effort to stand erect, and endeavored to absorb the shock of his fall to some extent by rolling over in the direction that he was drifting. Consequently, his tumble did him no harm; the parachute rolled into a large cypress at the edge of the open space and came to a stop. The jump was over.

Bill got out of his harness, repacked it, and throwing the bundle over his shoulder, set off to find his two companions. Over to the west, a mile or more from the island, the burning amphibian sent its tower of thick black smoke mushrooming skyward.

Bill walked for half a mile along the edge of the sawgrass, and then he saw two familiar figures appear from out a clump of trees.

“Osceola! Sam!” he called, and ran forward to meet them.

His friends waved to him, but did not quicken their pace. The old negro seemed to be leaning heavily on Osceola’s arm, and as he drew nearer, Bill saw that their clothes were dripping wet.

The young Seminole grinned as he came up. “You look as fresh as a daisy!” His tone was cheerful, though it held a hint of weariness. “I certainly hated to leave you up yonder in the plane with that bunch of cutthroats. Sam did too. We’ve been talking about it. Until I saw your parachute open up, I was darned worried, I can tell you.”

“Well,” beamed Bill, grasping their hands, “it sure is good to see you both again, I’m okay, but I take it you made bad landings. My fault, too,—I should have explained more about it before you jumped.”

“Dat’s all right, Marse Bill,” piped up Sam. “It’s me what brung de trouble. Marse Osceola, he sure am a born parachuter! He done landed fine on dis island—but dis old nigger crabbed everything. Come down in de grass out yonder. Dem sharp-tooth edges sure cut me pretty bad. And I ain’t no hand at dis jumpin’ business nohow. Like to drownded myself if Marse Osceola hadn’t come in an’ drug me out. Got all tangled up in de grass and dem ropes, wif de big umbrella down on top of me, tryin’ t’ smudder me to death. I sure is obliged to you gentlemen for gettin’ me away from de workin’s—but I’d rather stay put there all my born days than go through all dat again. Not me, suh!”

The old man sat down suddenly, and began to shake all over.

“Take it easy, Sam,” cautioned Bill. “Just don’t think about it for a while. Everything will come out all right.”

“I hope so, Marse Bill.” Sam’s tone, though gloomy, was much less excited. “Dis heah airplane stuff an’ parachutin’ may be all right fo’ white folks—but if I must do a loop-de-loop, let mine be roun’ some chicken coop.” He grinned appreciatively at his own joke. “Thank goodness I’m down here where I’s gwine to stay. I ain’t gwine to be a-oozin’ round de sky no mo’—Dis heah nigger ain’t got too proud to walk. Nobody ain’t gwine to ketch Sam a-flirtin’ wif de sun no mo’. Unh—unh! Not me!”

Both lads burst out laughing. “You’ve got more nerve than the rest of us put together, Sam,” declared Osceola.

“You sure have!” Bill knelt at his side. “Osceola is a warrior and a gentleman, but he can’t bandage for a tinker’s hoop. Let me fix those things. And how about this ankle—you were limping, uncle?”

“It ain’t no sprain, suh. I kin walk on dat foot—but she sure do hurt po’werful bad.”

“You’ve wrenched and strained it.” Bill’s deft fingers were lightly pressing the old man’s ankle. “We’ll bind it up tighter and keep you off your feet for a couple of days, and you’ll be able to do your hundred yards in ten flat!”

“Help him off with his wet clothes, Bill, while I get rid of mine,” Osceola suggested. “They’ll soon be dry in this sun.”

“That’s a good idea. While you two are drying, I think the best we can do is to have a meeting of the Ways and Means Committee. We’re still an awful longways from anywhere.”

Sam nodded his head vigorously. “You done said a mouf-ful, suh. I hope I ain’ no gloom—but we sure is in a bad fix. Dese heah Glades is a mighty bad place to git stranded in widout a boat. I don’t know but what dem fellers what come down in de airplane wasn’t de lucky ones!”